Melodies
by ravenscaronff
Summary: John secretly loves Sherlock but loses hope when Victor Trevor visits 221B Baker Street. Lots of hurt/comfort. Eventual HEA. My first ever fic.
1. I'd die without you

**CHAPTER 1**

**I'd die without you**

(John's POV)

I'd die without you - P.M. Dawn  
_Is it my turn to wish you were lying here?  
I tend to dream you when I'm not sleeping  
Is it my turn to fictionalize my world?  
Or even imagine your emotions, tell myself anything_

Is it my turn to hold you by your hands?  
Tell you, I love you and you not hear me  
Is it my turn to totally understand?  
To watch you walk out of my life and not do a damn thing

If I have to give away  
The feeling that I feel, yeah  
If I have to sacrifice  
Oh, whatever babe, whatever, baby  
If I have to take apart  
All that I am  
Is there anything that I would not do  
Since I'd die without you  
Yeah, baby, since I'd die without you  
Since I'd die without you

It had been a grueling shift at A&E and John was exhausted as he dragged himself home. Pulling off his clothes and leaving them strewn on the floor, he entered the shower and felt his dark mood washing away as the scalding water coursed down his body, allowing his tight muscles to finally loosen and unclench. Ten minutes later, he emerged feeling clean and a bit hungry, pulled on pajamas and a t-shirt and padded into the kitchen to fix dinner. Predictably, the fridge was empty of anything edible. Sherlock's domestic capabilities and interests left a lot to be desired. Alright, take out, then.

He was reaching for the phone to call the Thai place down the street when he heard voices on the stairs and then instinctively took a step back as the door to the flat flew open. Sherlock stormed in, his coat sweeping behind him, followed by a tall, fair-haired and strikingly good looking man. They were engaged in an animated dialogue as Sherlock gesticulated wildly, explaining his theory on his latest case, completely unaware of John standing in the kitchen. They left the flat as suddenly as they had entered, slamming the door behind them leaving a gaping John in their wake.

Over the weeks that followed, Victor (Victor Trevor was his name) seemed to be over at the flat all the time. John had barely spoken to Sherlock for days as he was never alone, but the man didn't seem to notice or care. He seemed to have changed around Victor - his eyes had a light behind them, he looked excited and alive. It was becoming increasingly and painfully evident to John that Victor's attractiveness quotient was on par with Sherlock's and he was also a likely contender for an intellectual and emotional partnership. Sherlock continued to be oblivious of John's existence, swept up in the thrill of this latest case and his crackling deductions and basking in the fawning adoration Victor seemed quite happy to provide. He had forgotten John.

A week after Victor first showed up at Baker Street, John had returned early from his shift, expecting that Sherlock would be dashing about London with his new..._side-kick_? _Friend?_ _Admirer_? He climbed up the stairs, turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open a fraction and...froze. Sherlock and Victor were crushed against one another, seemingly lost in a deep and sloppy kiss. Sherlock was propped up against the table, his arms encircling Victor's waist while his fingers clutched Victor's shirt. Hard. Victor had cradled Sherlock's face in his hands and his head ducked and pulled back and ducked again as he kissed Sherlock's lips over and over and began to explore his mouth with his tongue. He pulled away and his kisses fell over Sherlock's cheeks, nose, temple, earlobes, neck and when he nipped the soft, sensitive skin behind Sherlock's ear, John heard him growl softly. It sounded to John like a growl of pleasure. A sound he had wanted to evoke with _his _kisses, _his _mouth, _his _fingers, _his _love.

Time stood still as John's mind attempted to comprehend the sight before him. His world narrowed to the point where Sherlock's face connected with Victor's, fissures developing from coherent thoughts finally flooding his mind and then his world splintered. This was it, then. The final proof. Sherlock would never be his. And, just like that, it ended for John.

The two men had not realized John was standing in the doorway, so he retreated, noiselessly shut the door behind him, carefully descended the stairs and then just stood outside the building, his head hanging down, his eyes closed. His mind was blank, lost, direction-less. Where does he go from here? Is this what death felt like? He wouldn't mind dying right that minute. Crushed and hurting, he dragged himself to a pub to drink himself senseless. When he finally returned home (was it still _home_?) in the early morning, the door to Sherlock's bedroom was shut so he quietly ascended the stairs to his room and collapsed on the bed, face down, utterly bereft.

Sherlock had left early to consult for Lestrade on a case and John had never been more relieved to not have to face him that morning. He was an army man and although shattered, he had never been one to suffer from self-pity. His heart may be bleeding but John Watson refused to shed a single tear.

'What can I do? How do I fix this? _Can _I fix it? There's nothing to fix. I can't change anything. Feelings can't be forced. I can't think. Oh god. I can't think. Get out! Get out of my head, Sherlock! I _have to _work this out. I _will _work this out.' He found he was driving himself mad, seeing his flatmate in everything, the cushions, the sofa, the bathroom, the very air in the flat. It was suffocating. He had to get away from Baker Street. Now.

He could have left without saying anything. Sherlock typically didn't notice when John was not around and he had even less reason to do so now, what with Victor providing a tempting and powerful distraction. And yet John was a considerate flatmate and left Sherlock a note, taped to the fridge, that he was heading out of town for a week but didn't say where he was headed. He didn't _know _where he was headed.

Determined to use the time to work out his next steps, John ended up on a train to Cardiff and booked himself into a budget hotel for a week. The first night, he sat at his laptop and attempted to write in his personal journal. Words escaped him. He sat staring at his laptop, empty, numb, drained, detached. A part of him watched himself grieve and his 'watching' self was completely baffled that John Watson, decidedly heterosexual soldier and doctor, had allowed himself to fall inexorably in love with a man who had ruthlessly disabused him of any notion of a potential romantic association by declaring, on the first day of their acquaintance, that he was married to his Work and then, over the next few months, reinforcing that declaration by denouncing sentiment as a dangerous chemical defect to be disparaged.

The week in Cardiff passed slowly. The days seemed interminable and nightfall brought no relief. A maelstrom of desperate and hopeless longing kept him awake in bed, fingers clutching his sheets, his body writhing and he finally allowed himself to break. He wept. He hadn't realized that he was hoping, in a dark corner of his mind, that Sherlock's heart might just melt and open up to love. But now, as he recalled the torturous image of the two men entwined in each other and lost in a deep, passionate kiss, any remaining fight left him as he surrendered to the finality of it. He felt hollow. His affection, his devotion, his _love _meant nothing to Sherlock. He had been consigned to live out his life pining for an unrequited love.

Words began to come to him in turbulent, unstoppable waves. This journal entry was raw, aching and honest. It was a love letter to Sherlock that held nothing back. He wrote of the blinding joy that suffused him when the mad detective unexpectedly revealed a rare flash of concern, and maybe even _fondness_, for his friend. The desolation that washed the joy away when he reminded himself that they would only ever be friends and now the sinking feeling of loss as he realized that perhaps even that friendship was at an end. Finally, the words dried up. There was nothing more to say.

Sherlock had an annoying habit of hacking his laptop and he could _never, ever _be allowed to see this entry. So John printed a copy, deleted it from his laptop and placed the neatly folded note inside his jacket pocket, knowing Sherlock wouldn't think to look in such a public location for something John wished to hide.

With a sigh of resignation, he shut down his laptop and rubbed his eyes, astonished to find his face was wet - he hadn't realized he was crying. Again. Repulsed by his own weakness, he jolted himself upright to shake off this malaise and determined to work through this.

John was a strong and courageous man but having to see Sherlock every day, knowing that he and Victor were intimate and in love and that he, John, was never even a consideration was beyond even his capacity to endure. He was not _that _strong. There was only one thing to do. He had to move out.

When he returned to Baker Street, Sherlock was not in and his note was where he had left it - taped to the fridge. Unread. Sherlock probably hadn't even realized that John was not around for a whole week. He did that. He felt a twinge of affection in his chest as he thought of Sherlock talking to his flatmate when John was not in the flat. But that was in the past. Ordinary John, plain John, boring John, 'friend' John did not count in Sherlock's life now. Nothing mattered anymore. His life was reverting to the empty, forlorn ennui of the days following his return from the war. Before he met a mad detective who made life exciting and worth living again. 'Fuck it!', he silently snapped at himself. 'I'll learn to live again. I have to.'

John had found a cheap flat an hour's commute away from St. Barts but it was the best that he could find at such short notice within his limited budget. It took a couple of hours to pack his few personal belongings. Mrs. Hudson had gone shopping with Mrs. Turner so there was no one to whom to say his goodbyes. Turning back for one last look at 221B Baker Street, John Watson turned around and got into the waiting taxi. He didn't leave a note this time.


	2. Against all odds

**CHAPTER 2 **

**Against all odds**  
(Sherlock's POV)

Against all odds - Phil Collins  
_How can I just let you walk away  
Just let you leave without a trace  
When I stand here taking every breath  
With you, ooh ooh  
You're the only one who really knew me at all_

How can you just walk away from me  
When all I can do is watch you leave  
Coz we've shared the laughter and the pain  
And even shared the tears  
You're the only one who really knew me at all

So take a look at me now  
Oh, there's just an empty space  
And there's nothing left here to remind me  
Just a memory of your face  
Ooh take a look at me now  
Well, there's just an empty space  
And your coming back to me  
Is against all odds  
And that's what I've got to face

Sherlock had solved Victor's case and was coming down from the high. He was crashing, actually. He needed John. Victor's kiss had taken him by surprise - they had shared a lust-filled month in Uni as Sherlock experimented with his sexuality but once his scientific curiosity was satisfied, he had quickly lost interest and, since then, had not felt the need to indulge in committed physical intimacy. There were too many other interesting things on which to spend his energies. His infrequent urges were dealt with by himself or, if absolutely unavoidable, by brief and hurried encounters with strangers he picked up at clubs. He had summarily dismissed Victor after informing him, in no uncertain terms, that they were never getting back together.

Now, Sherlock missed his John (_his _John?). Oh. He hadn't realized that he had started to think of John as _his_. He missed his friend, needed his grounding, calming presence. John was his intellectual lodestone, his moral compass, his personal sanctuary - he always came back to John. John was _his home_. OH... But where _was _he?

Pacing through the flat, manic and annoyed, he tried to explain John's absence. There were no text messages, no emails. What the hell was going on! He stormed into the kitchen for a drink of water and noticed the folded paper stuck to the fridge. _John_. He had been gone for a week and Sherlock hadn't noticed. Well, it wasn't _his _fault that John didn't talk to him about it! _Was _it? He sniffed the air in the kitchen and found that it no longer carried John's scent. The kettle and mugs were clean and neatly stored in the cabinets. Something was not right. In fact, something was _very wrong_. Running up the stairs to John's bedroom, he stopped short at the door. The room bore no trace of John. Washed sheets, a neatly made bed, an empty closet, an empty desk, no books, no laptop, an empty bathroom, no toothbrush, no soap or shampoo. Nothing. No John. It was as though he had never lived there. No! No! NO! Sherlock grabbed his hair, unable to deduce the events of the past few weeks! He panicked. And Sherlock Holmes never, ever panicked. Where was John! He needed to know _right now_! He dialled John's mobile but the number had been disconnected.

Oh. He knew whom to call.

'Hello Mycroft'.

'Hello dear brother. Not texting today? To what do I owe this pleasure of this call?'

'John has left.'

'Ah. So you finally noticed that the good doctor no longer resides at Baker Street. I did wonder how long it would be before you snapped free of Victor's attentions.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. Victor was and is irrelevant. Where's John?'

'John wouldn't have left without letting you know. Did John not say where he was going?', Mycroft asked innocently.

'Don't be smug, Mycroft. Do you think I would be talking to you if I knew where he was? No, he did not tell me he was leaving and he did not tell me where he has gone. Now, do. you. know. where. he. is?'

_'Of course _I do, brother dear! But your doctor doesn't want to see you anymore.'

'Oh really. And he told you that, did he?'

'As a matter of fact, he did. I tried to intervene before he left but his mind was made up. John Watson is nothing if not decisive.' he allowed with grudging admiration.

'Why?! I don't know what happened to make him move out!', and then softer, 'I don't know...why would he leave...me? Why? What did I do?'

'Oh Sherlock...are you really that dense?'

Sherlock remained silent.

'You _kissed _Victor! He _saw _you _kiss _Victor. What did you expect him to do?!'

'That's ridiculous! I did NOT kiss Victor. _He _kissed me and I turned him down. John has always been a maudlin idiot, unable to see the truth before him. Idiot! And anyway, why would that make him want to leave? That is just idiotic. He doesn't think of me that way. He's not gay!' Sherlock shouted. 'In fact, he won't shut up about how _not-gay _he is!' he added sarcastically.

A long moment of silence passed and then Mycroft spoke and this time Sherlock heard the compassion in his voice.

'Sherlock...you _see _but you do not _observe_', Mycroft's tone was grave. 'There's something you should know about John. Something you should see, actually. I'll send a car. Be ready in ten minutes.'

Precisely ten minutes later, a black car with tinted windows pulled up to Baker Street and Sherlock got in. Mycroft sat in the back, holding out a folded piece of paper.

'What's this?'

'A photocopy of something John wrote. If, after reading this, you still want to know where he is, call me.'

'How did you get this?'

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow as if to say 'Really?' __

'Why didn't you show me this until now?'__

'You didn't ask' Mycroft answered unctuously.__

Sherlock simply shook his head in annoyance and got out of the car.

When he entered the flat, he found he didn't want to uncover the mystery of the note just yet. Sherlock could unravel people by just observing and he knew John as well as he knew himself. What _could _that note contain? What did he _not already know _about John? This puzzle was more interesting than most of his cases.

He picked up his violin and attempted to distract himself with Paganini, working through a myriad of possibilities in his head. When, forty-five frustrating minutes later, no explanations had presented themselves, he dropped his violin on the sofa and snatched the sheet of paper from the table. Settling in his armchair with a huff, he slowly unfolded it, his heart thumping with apprehension. Curious. Sherlock Holmes was never apprehensive. He began to read.

The words he read felt like a blow to his chest and the air swooshed out his lungs in a sharp exhale that was nearly a dry heave. He had read through the entire journal entry without blinking once, consuming the contents as a single unbroken thought. When he got to the end, he was shocked to find that he was shaking. He forced himself to calm down by controlling his breathing, his shoulders heaving with the effort. Dropping his head into his hands, he clutched his hair, his mind a minefield of chaotic thought and, most unexpectedly, unresolved _sentiment_.

He was blindsided by the depth of affection John held for him and his own visceral response was out of control. With a sweep of his robe, he rose to his feet and started to pace the flat again, trying, and failing spectacularly, to reconcile the tempest raging in his mind with the beliefs he had held about himself all his life. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, practitioner of logic and the science of deduction, did not _do emotions_. Or did he? The back of his mind unhelpfully supplied that he, quite apparently, did. Sherlock Holmes had fallen victim to sentiment, his carefully erected twin defenses of logic and science effortlessly demolished by an unassuming and deceptively unremarkable, short army doctor with hair of gold and grey, eyes like the sea and a smile that felt like home. And the doctor wasn't even trying.

His steps slowed as he thought of how, unnoticed, John had made his space in Sherlock's life and how easily and naturally his life had flowed around John to accommodate and ensconce him. He reached into his Mind Palace and extracted memories of the adventures they had shared. The close and dangerously frequent brushes with injury and, sometimes, death. Their pounding hearts and exultant smiles as they caught their breath after an exhilarating chase. The caring, the concern, the _absolute _trust they evoked in each other. Slowly, very slowly, tumult gave way to quietude. And acceptance. And, just like that, it started for Sherlock. It had, actually, started a long time back but he had just been too distracted to see it.

He knew what he had to do. 'You idiot!' he shouted to the empty flat. 'Come back! Come back to me...', defeated, 'Please. Please...John'.

There was only one thing to do. He picked up his phone and sent a text.

_The address. Now. SH_

30 seconds later, he received a reply. It included a new mobile number.

A second text followed.  
_Don't mess it up, brother. MH_


	3. Kiss the rain

**CHAPTER 3**

**Kiss the rain **

(Sherlock and John)

Kiss the Rain by Billie Myers

_Hello, can you hear me?  
Am I gettin' through to you?  
Hello, Is it late there?  
Is that laughter on the line?  
Are you sure you're there alone?  
Cause I'm tryin' to explain  
Somethin's wrong, you just don't sound the same  
Why don't you, Why don't you  
Go outside, Go outside,  
Kiss the rain,  
Whenever you need me,  
Kiss the rain,  
Whenever I'm gone, too long.  
If your lips feel lonely and thirsty,  
Kiss the rain,  
And wait for the dawn.  
Keep in mind,  
We're under the same sky  
And the night's as empty for me, as for you  
If you feel you can't wait till morinin'  
Kiss the rain, Kiss the rain, Kiss the rain  
_  
With shaking fingers, Sherlock dialed John's new mobile number. It rang 4 times before going to voicemail. Sherlock hung up. Fifteen minutes later, he called back. John didn't answer. John was ignoring his calls - he knew John recognized his number. Fuck this, he thought. John was still in London so he pulled on his battle uniform - purple shirt (John was especially partial to that shirt), black suit, blue scarf and Belstaff coat - ran out of the flat and hailed a taxi. A minute later he was in a cab, heading to John's new home. London passed him by in the taxi's window as he worked through what he would say to John.

John's new flat was easy to find. Sherlock buzzed his number but John was not in. No matter. He would wait. A few hours later, John still hadn't returned and the weather had changed. The skies opened and it began to rain, hard. Sherlock, of course, would never carry something as plebian as an umbrella but he didn't really care that he was getting drenched as he waited in the downpour. For John. His friend. His heart. His lo... The clouds tumbled and darkened as the evening gradually descended on the city.

Finally, around 8 p.m., two dark figures, a man and a woman, walked up to John's building. Sherlock's already frenzied thoughts went into overdrive. 'It _is_ John...but who is the woman with him? Oh god, I'm too late! Am I too late? Has John moved on already? Women find him attractive. Of course they do! What's not to like? But...he is mine. He's _mine_! Isn't he?' The crippling doubt felt like a knife twisting in his ribs.

They hadn't seen Sherlock as he waited in the shadows, watching. The woman leaned into John, reaching up to his neck in an attempt to bring his face down for a kiss. His body went stiff as he tried to hold himself away and peel her off him. 'Please, Sarah. I'm not ready. It's too soon and I'm still getting over someone. This is not right.'

Sherlock felt his heart near explode with relief at those words. He was done waiting. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped into the light and saw John's head snap up as he took in the vision of his former friend. Drenched to the skin, soggy curls framing his face, rivulets of water running down his cheeks, his neck, disappearing into his open collar, down his chest...He looked like a wet work of art. 'Sherlock', he whispered. His eyes closed and he took in a deep breath and opened his eyes again.

Sarah didn't miss the storm brewing between these two men. There was some unfinished business here. She cleared her throat. 'I'll, uh, just be going then. Good night, John'. She called a cab and left, ignored by the two men who continued to stare at each other, their eyes silently pouring out volumes of hurt and pain and want and longing. John tore his eyes away to look at his shoes and asked 'What are you doing here, Sherlock?' __

Sherlock remained silent but took moved closer to John and tilted his head to look at him even more closely. Sherlock looked wet and beautiful and fragile and yet, predatory, dominant and so very male. John's senses were filled with Sherlock's scent and the air between them felt electric. His heart pounded in his chest and he swallowed a few times but stayed silent. Finally, a long minute later, he asked 'How long have you been standing in the rain? Come in. You need to dry off or you'll get sick.' John held out a hand and Sherlock took it, overwhelmed by this small gesture of his friend's concern for him.

Their hands continued to touch lightly as John unlocked the door to his flat and stepped in. Sherlock followed, taking in his surroundings. It was a small but functional flat, a single room that served as a living room and bedroom, with a writing table and chair against one wall, a single bed by the other, a very small kitchen and a bathroom. John dropped Sherlock's hand leaving him bereft.

Finally, when Sherlock spoke, his words were a rasp. 'Was that your girlfriend?'

'I...uh...No. Sarah is not my girlfriend...What are you doing here, Sherlock?'

'I wanted to see you'. Apparently, they had dispensed with the small talk.

John shook his head and looked down at the floor. 'You have nothing to see me about, Sherlock. Not anymore.' He pulled at his cuffs, and looked up to face the tall, pale man whose eyes bored into him. John felt his defenses being rent, his raw emotions ripped out into the open, to be judged by the terrifying man standing before him, the man with the cold eyes and heart of an executioner. The man who used to be his friend. In the dim light of street lamps streaming into the living room, Sherlock looked like a statue, inanimate, remote, unfeeling, stone. And so heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

John tilted his chin up defiantly but his voice hitched as he asked in a quiet voice, 'Why do you want to see me? Why now? You didn't care that I was gone a week before I left. And how did you find me anyway? No, don't answer that. Mycroft.'

'Yes, Mycroft', Sherlock affirmed. 'He'd track you down anywhere.'

They both fell silent.

'What do you want from me?'

'I want you to read your journal entry out aloud. To me.'

Confused, John asked 'What journal entry?' And then his eyes widened as he realized what Sherlock meant. He felt anger surge through him...then hurt... then anger again.

He spoke, louder this time. 'So _that'_s why you're here?! Are you _bored, _Sherlock? No case? Life's so dull so you decide to get your kicks by watching me humiliate myself and admit feelings I _know _are wrong and that have _destroyed _the _only _friendship I ever cared about. The only _relationship _I cared about in my life...You were always an arrogant bastard but when did you become this cruel?'

'When you left me'.

John blew out a trembling breath.

'Just stop it.'

'John...'

Oh how he craved hearing his name spoken by those lips!

'John...please, just read it to me. I want... I _need..._ to hear your words, _those _words, in _your _voice, not mine.' Sherlock's voice was ragged. John heard a sharp intake of breath and noticed that Sherlock's body was trembling with emotion, his fists clenched, knuckles white and bloodless. John did not relent.

'And what will that give you? Other than proof that you have destroyed me and that I'll almost certainly never get over you. Will that make you happy, Sherlock? To hear me say that I love you?'

'Yes...it would...I haven't _asked _you for anything, ever, John. I've _taken _from you, but never asked. I'm _asking_ now.'

John looked up to see gray-green eyes softening as they looked at him with...no, it couldn't be _need_. Sherlock was pleading with him, wordlessly. He had never been able to turn friend down, ever. And how could he deny him now when the man was practically _begging _him to speak? Anything Sherlock wanted John would eventually give him. But he could not, not this time.

'I didn't save that journal entry, Sherlock. I printed it, kept it for a few days and then burned it. Just...just couldn't deal with it. It was killing me.'

Sherlock let out a huff, sad and dry. 'No matter, here's a copy.' A folded note was held out between the index and middle fingers of a pale hand that John had adored. His own hand shook as he took it and his eyes stung as they began to move over his own words.

'You _know _this was never meant for your eyes. I don't understand... When did you rifle through my room? And how come you didn't say anything then?'

Sherlock started to speak but John held up his hand. 'No...don't. I know...You had..._have _Victor now. But I never imagined you would be so cruel to me. I suppose I really meant nothing to you.' He sounded defeated.

'Mycroft made the copy. He only gave it to me today. This is one time I'm glad he meddled...Please, John... Just read it out. Give me that much.'

John's head snapped up and his eyes flashed defiantly at Sherlock - he was bruised but unbroken. 'I would have given you _everything_!' he hissed. He tried to resist but then gave in with a shake of his head. Sherlock had already read the note. John had already been laid bare before him and there was nothing else with which Sherlock could flay him.

'Alright. If I do what you ask, do you promise to leave and never come back?'

'Read it out...Please...just...please, I need to hear it.'

With a quavering voice, John began reading his own words aloud. __

'Sherlock. My friend. My heart. My love.' __

He stopped, choking with emotion. He swallowed, several times and hard, blinking back tears. __

'I have no words', he continued, 'for how much you mean to me. My friend. My manic genius. My best friend in the world. But you are not, are you? You are not _mine._ And you never will be. You were my friend, my best friend, but that is all. You now are someone else's heart. Someone else's love. Victor. I can't even feel badly about that because he _is _your match in every way. You are so good together that I can't even be jealous. Had I not fallen in love with you and had I to choose someone for you, it would be Victor.' __

He paused and looked up at Sherlock as the detective looked right at John, his tall body held straight, tense and vibrating like a string stretched tight, hands still clenched into fists thrust in his coat pockets. His shoulders rose and fell with his breath, which shivered every so often.

John continued reading, 'You're wonderful, Sherlock. So amazing. So perfect. Yes, to me you are perfect. But with Victor by your side, I see the joy in your eyes. It's like you finally have something exciting in your life. Something I am not. When I stand beside you, I'm ordinary and plain and boring. I can imagine you saying 'You're dull, John!' I _am _dull, aren't I? You deserve so much more than I can give you or be for you. But I love you. With every fibre of my being. I would give my life for you but that's not enough, is it?'

John's head dropped and he sniffled. He bit his lip as a single tear broke free and rolled down the side of his face in a wretched show of weakness.

'Go on...please, don't stop now', Sherlock prodded desperately.

'I don't know when I started feeling this way but I love you. I am not gay, never have been, but when I see you, there's no one else. There can never be anyone else. I want you and love you. I wanted to take care of you. Hold you and make you laugh when you're sad, kiss your forehead when you're ill, walk beside you through life and give you anything you want that I have the power to give. I love you and adore you and _want _you. I wanted to be able to tell the world you are MINE. That you belong to me and I belong to you.

I want you, Sherlock and I have thought of your body and of the things I would do to it, but I _know _you would be _disgusted _if you learned of my feelings. You were married to your Work. And now you have Victor. It seems that you have found in him a friend, a lover, a partner. You don't need me anymore. Perhaps you never did.

I realize I betrayed our friendship by allowing myself to feel this way about you. And for that I am truly sorry but I am not, in the least, ashamed of how I feel. I suspect there is no place in your life for me anymore. I love you so very, very much. And it kills me not to be able to tell you. But I cannot bear to lose our friendship... And that is why I shall never let you know how I feel. I don't know how I can continue to stay under the same roof as you but I also don't know how I will live if I were to lose you...'

The entry ended and John's voice trailed off...and he added softly 'Well, now I know... This is not living.' The paper fell from his hands and came to rest on the floor at Sherlock's feet.

Neither of them spoke for a whole minute. John's head stayed down while his shoulders shook as he quietly sobbed. Finally, he calmed himself and stood up straight, squaring his shoulders. He met Sherlock's direct gaze, unashamed that his cheeks were still wet with his tears. His eyes challenged Sherlock to break him. He was John Watson again and the soldier in him would survive this.

'There, I've done what you asked. You'll understand if I ask you to leave and not come back'.

Sherlock made no move to leave. He took a deep breath. 'Do you still feel this way? About me?'

'It doesn't matter. It never did.'

'It does! John..._please_! Tell me.' Sherlock begged.

A whispered submission 'Yes...I do.' So this is how it felt to be utterly destroyed.

Sherlock slammed his fist into the table and cried out 'Then why are you still standing there?! Why aren't you doing anything about it!'

John looked up, shocked, his mouth dropped open._  
_  
'Why are you not claiming me as _yours?_ _Make me yours. _I am here. _I am yours. Take _me, John...'_  
_  
John's lips twisted in hurt and he asked, incredulous, 'Is this your idea of a joke?! This is low even for you. I _know _you don't return my affections but don't mock me. I am...have been your friend and don't deserve to be insulted like this. Please... _stop_ this. Stop this!'

'Oh, John..._my _John... my friend, my heart, my _love_...How could you think I would want Victor?' Sherlock cried out incredulously, as he reached for John, trying to draw him into his arms.

John wrenched himself out of Sherlock's arms, pushing back with more force than he intended, slamming Sherlock into the wall. 'Stop this! STOP. THIS. I _saw _you kiss Victor.' he spat out the name.

'Oh, god, John! What ever happened to "believe nothing of what you hear and only half of what you see"? Victor kissed me, yes, but I didn't kiss him back! He forced himself on me but I _pushed him away_! You saw me _pushing him away_!. He has wanted me since Uni but I never returned his feelings. And since moving into Baker Street, how could I? I have you.' 'Had you', he corrected himself.

John shook his head, turned to the door and opened it, in a gesture that clearly asked Sherlock to leave.

'Stop this, John. Let me show you how much you mean to me. Take me to bed, your bed. Make me yours. I'm giving myself to you. Please, please...Take me, claim me, own me, hurt me, love me. I am yours, _only yours_.' John started to protest but he found himself wrapped in the long and wet arms of a mad detective who was dropping soft, feathery kisses on his face, his closed eyes, temple, cheeks, nose and then finally, those lips, those beautiful, plush lips he had adored when he thought no one was watching, came to rest on his. Just a soft, tender press of flesh that contained an apology for what had happened, an admission of love and the promise of togetherness in what was to come.

With a muffled cry, John threw his arms around Sherlock's back, pulled him close and crashed his lips hard against and into Sherlock's mouth. 


	4. Father figure

**CHAPTER 4**

**Father Figure **(Sherlock and John)

Father Figure – George Michael  
_That's all I wanted, something special, something_ _sacred, in your eyes_  
_For just one moment, to be bold and naked at your side  
Sometimes I think that you never understand me  
Maybe this time is forever, say you can be_

That's all you wanted, something special, someone sacred, in your life  
Just for one moment to be warm and naked at my side  
Sometimes I think that you never understand me  
If we have faith in each other then we can be strong

I will be your father figure, put your tiny hands in mine  
I will be your preacher, teacher, anything you have in mind  
I will be your father figure, I have had enough of crying  
I will be the one who loves you till the end of time.

They kissed for a long time. Soft, fleeting presses of lips on lips, cheeks, eyebrows, foreheads, jawlines, earlobes, necks. Sherlock felt John's body shudder and he pulled back to see his friend's face pulled into a conflicted grimace. 'What's wrong?', he asked softly. 'Sherlock...if I find out that this is just a game or an experiment to you and that you don't mean this, it will _destroy _me. _You _will destroy me. I have no defenses against you anymore.'

Sherlock pulled him into a tight embrace, pressing the length of his body to John's and spoke with his lips buried in John's wonderfully soft hair. 'John...my John...I am going to show you just how much you mean to me. I'm going to seduce you, undo you, make love to you until you believe me when I say that life without you holds no meaning for me anymore. I will win you back and make you mine. Will you let me?'

In response, John reached up to pull Sherlock's lips back to his, crushing his body to Sherlock's, holding him close, parting his lips and allowing his tongue to gently lick Sherlock's lips open. Their lips opened wider and their tongues began to lick and lap and caress each other in a wet and noisy exchange of saliva, breath and love as each explored the other's mouth. Over and over and over. Bumping noses and nipping lips and licking skin and teeth and sucking tongues. Sherlock pulled off John's mouth causing him to whimper in protest but he held John, cradling his face in his large hands and looked into his eyes. His gaze was open, unshuttered. He was laying himself bare for John in an act of vulnerability that neither of them ever expected to see from Sherlock.

Their breath misted and mingled between them and John's clothes were starting to get damp as the wetness from the Sherlock's coat seeped through. Common sense prevailed and John murmured into Sherlock's ear 'We need to get you out of these clothes. I don't want you falling sick.' as he started to undo Sherlock's scarf. The taller man cocked an eyebrow and looked down at John with narrowed eyes, smirking. 'Yes, _that _is why you want to get me out of my clothes.' John flushed a bright red but continued to undress Sherlock.

He pushed the coat off Sherlock's shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, and began to unbutton the wet shirt. The darkened fabric clung wetly to Sherlock's skin and John peeled it open, revealing soft, flawless and pale skin. Sherlock's chest had a dusting of wispy brown hair that tapered down his abdomen and disappeared under his waistband. His skin was cool and glistening and John pressed warm lips to his breastbone and breathed against his skin. He heard a gasp and looked up to gaze upon the pale column of Sherlock's neck as he threw his head back, overcome by the sensation of John's lips on his skin. John pulled off his shirt and let it fall to the floor.

Kneeling before Sherlock, he undid his belt buckle, unbuttoned his trousers and pulled the zip down to let them drop to the floor. He turned his head to the side and pressed his cheek to the swell in Sherlock's boxers. He smiled when he heard the tortured groan above him as he gently rubbed his cheek and nose and lips against Sherlock's clothed flesh and then opened his mouth to place a wet and obscene kiss on Sherlock's erection through the fabric. Sherlock's knees buckled and he gasped 'Oh...oh _god_!', bending over to grasp John's shoulders for support. John pulled the boxers down to Sherlock's ankles, gazing at the magnificent erection that had sprung free, throbbing and tumescent. With shaking hands, John got him to step out of his clothes and stood up to place a hand flat on Sherlock's sternum to push him onto the bed.

He allowed himself the indulgence of taking in the sight of a nude, supine Sherlock, all long and lean pale lines lying open to him, waiting to be claimed. His thousand imaginings of this moment couldn't begin to approximate the magnificence that lay stretched out before him.

'Take your clothes off, John', Sherlock commanded with a low growl and John complied.

He stood naked beside the bed, his mouth going dry as Sherlock threw his arms up above his head, crossed at the wrists, one leg bent at the knee while the other stretched out on the bed, a flagrant pose of seduction and John was powerless to resist. If he could consume Sherlock and absorb him and his essence into his skin and tissues, he would.

John's tongue darted out to lick his lips as he crawled onto the bed, pushing Sherlock's leg flat to straddle his lover and then lowered himself to sit on Sherlock's thighs, his buttocks resting on Sherlock's knees. Leaning forward, he reached out to clasp Sherlock's wrists and then gently, with infinite tenderness, ran his fingers down his lover's forearms, his triceps and through the soft hair of his underarms. His fingers were feather light, almost not there, and Sherlock arched into his touch, seeking more contact, when he reached his chest, caressing his nipples as they hardened at his touch, down his ribs, feeling the bumps under the too-thin skin, into the dip below his ribs and over his abdomen, circling and dipping into his navel and over his concave belly.

Drawing his eyes lower, he caressed Sherlock's hip with one hand while the fingers of his other hand ran through the rough, curly hair at the base of Sherlock's cock and then up his shaft, and then down and then up again, pausing to trace a circular pattern on the flared head, slicking the skin with the pre-come beading at the tip. Sherlock's head twisted to the side into the pillow and he bit his lower lip trying to hold back a broken moan.

John leaned forward and bent down to crush his lips against Sherlock's in a punishing, raw kiss and then dragged his mouth over Sherlock's jaw line and then licked and nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin behind his ear. And kissed the bruise he knew would form there. And kissed and sucked at Sherlock's neck and collar bone and made his way down his torso, wet kisses following the path his fingers had traced, licking and sucking at his nipples, thrilled at the moans and mewls Sherlock was unable to hold back, lapping over his navel and sunken belly, causing the now-wet sparse hair to stick to his skin. Sherlock's head rolled back onto the pillow, stretching the pale column of his neck, his back arched up to John, taut and quivering and he moaned and sighed and cried out as he gave himself to the man stretched out above him who was worshiping him with his hands and mouth.

John's palm came to rest lying flat on Sherlock's belly, feeling it rise and fall with the force of his breathing as he gasped with the overload of sensation. John gave a small smile of satisfaction and then shifted to kneel between Sherlock's legs, pushing them apart. Sherlock propped himself on his elbows to look down his body at John. He knew what was coming and wanted to see it. _Needed _to see it. John had crouched between his legs and was rubbing his face against his thighs, placing small, soft kisses to the tender skin on the inside.

His hand still on Sherlock's belly, he lowered his head and placed a tender kiss in the curls at the base of Sherlock's erection and felt Sherlock's muscles clench under his palm. Reverently, he drew his lips up and down Sherlock's length, licking the turgid flesh all the way up to the mushroom top and then, without warning, Sherlock was engulfed in the wet, hot cavern of John's mouth. He was being sucked. Slowly, so slowly, so tenderly, so carefully, like his flesh in John's mouth was sacred and this act was John's oblation.

Taking more and more of Sherlock's length in, he hollowed his cheeks and began to suck harder, holding Sherlock's hips down to keep him from involuntarily bucking into his mouth, running his tongue on and into his slit, sucking, licking, kissing...John felt a hand tug gently in his hair, letting him know he was close but John shook his head in response, his mouth still on Sherlock, sucking harder, and seconds later, Sherlock's body pulled taut and bowed up from the bed as he pulsed his release into John's mouth, over and over. John swallowed desperately, licking and kissing and sucking and lapping to pull everything he could from his lover until, finally, it became too much, too sensitive and Sherlock cried out and tugged harder at John's hair. Only then did John pull off with a wet pop to look up into glistening gray-green eyes, wrecked with emotion, beautiful, plump lips framing a mouth that was panting, the pale expanse of chest and abdomen quivering and rising and falling as Sherlock tried to calm his body. A stray tear ran down his cheek and he held out a hand to pull John up to him.

John laid himself at Sherlock's side, pressing into him, placing small, soft kisses on his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder. Sherlock's body was still shivering in the aftermath of his orgasm. His arm was around John and he pulled him close and tipped his chin up to capture his lips and mouth in a long, desperate kiss. When he pulled back, he gasped, 'John...my John...I want you inside me. Tonight. I want to ride you. Will you let me, John? Please...I need you...need you inside me. I want you to come inside me...'. He held John's gaze and then his eyes narrowed, his expression hardened a little and his voice dropped to a low growl. 'I want you to _fuck _me. Hard. Own me. Mark me. Possess me. Will you do that for me?'

John cradled Sherlock's face in his hands and crashed his lips to his, pushing his tongue into his lover's mouth, licking and claiming and possessing and submitting. He kissed Sherlock's cheeks and eyebrows and forehead and jawline and rested his mouth on the sensitive skin behind his ear.

'Are you sure?' he whispered.

'Do you want me, John?' Sherlock countered.

'More than _anything_...more than...oh _god_, Sherlock. Would you let me? I want you. I want you so much.'

In response, Sherlock pushed John off him, holding him by his shoulders and moved his hips so that he was under John, his legs spread open and on either side of John's hips, gasped breathlessly 'Then I am yours.' as he bucked his hips up. John whimpered helplessly as his cock rubbed over Sherlock's.

They kissed wetly for a long moment before John reached for the lube and condom. He pushed Sherlock's knees up and further apart so that he was fully exposed, open and vulnerable under him. He squeezed a little lube onto his fingers and rubbed them together to warm it up and then ran his fingers along and into Sherlock's cleft and began a circular motion on the insides of his cheeks moving inward until he reached his puckered hole. Gently, so very gently, John caressed the rim, teasing it into relaxing and, when he felt it give a little, he pushed in one finger in increments until it was fully inside Sherlock's tight, wet heat. Sherlock's eyes fluttered close, his brows drawn together and his teeth digging into his lower lip. He was in obvious discomfort and John leaned over and kissing Sherlock's cheek asked softly 'Are you alright, love? Please... talk to me. I don't want to hurt you...My love. My love.'

'It's fine. I'm fine.' Sherlock rasped. 'I want more...John...more...' he panted.

Gently, John pulled out his finger and reentered with 2 and then 3 slick fingers. He slowly fucked Sherlock with his fingers for a few minutes until Sherlock's eyes flew open and he gasped 'I'm ready. Take me now, John! Now!'

The urgency in Sherlock's voice tipped John over the edge and he pulled out his fingers a little too quickly, causing his lover to wince. Rolling the condom on and lubing his shaft, he positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance.

'Are you sure, my love?'

'Yes!' Sherlock hissed. 'Give it to me now!'

That was all the encouragement John needed. He slowly pushed in until the head breached Sherlock's passage and then he waited and held there till his lover's body relaxed around the intrusion. Sherlock's breathing was laboured and he felt the burn as his muscles tried to relax and accept John into his body. A minute later he opened his eyes and encircled John's waist with his legs, nodding for John to push in further. John propped himself up on his elbows on either side of Sherlock's head and bowed his body over his lover's as he slowly pushed ahead, bit by bit, until he was fully sheathed in Sherlock's body, his hips flush with Sherlock flesh. His dropped his forehead to Sherlock's chest and breathed brokenly as waves of pleasure coursed through his body.

'Move!' Sherlock growled and John obeyed, snapping his hips in once, twice, three times, hard and fast, sweat rolling down his body as Sherlock dragged his nails over his back, hard enough to bruise. He felt Sherlock's walls shiver around his length as his cock repeatedly brushed over his prostate. He pushed Sherlock's knees further apart and picked up the tempo, stabbing into the hot, wet, and silky passage that was still tight but was taking him easily now, over and over and over until he felt he was close to the edge. He lubed up his right hand and reached between their bodies to close his hand around Sherlock's neglected cock and pumped hard, up and down, squeezing and pulling, twisting his wrist as he approached the top, flicking his thumb over the slick head.

'My love...my love...come for me, love!' John begged.

He felt Sherlock's cock twitch in his fist and then he was crying out 'John! Oh... Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn' like a prayer, his orgasm tearing through him, his whole body convulsing as hot, thick white ropes spurted out of his cock, spattering over their bodies. John continued to slam into Sherlock until, a few moments later, his own orgasm washed over him and he collapsed onto Sherlock, pulsing his seed into Sherlock's body, crying 'Aah...oh god... Sherlock...IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou Sherlock I love you.' Sherlock wrapped his long arms and legs around John and brought his head to rest on his chest, holding him and whispering tender words of love as John shuddered through the aftershocks of his shattering climax. __

They lay entwined in each other for a long time and finally John pulled out of Sherlock and disposed of the condom. Their abdomens were slick with Sherlock's come and John's tears had flowed onto Sherlock's chest. He rose went to the bathroom and returned with a wet towel and cleaned them up. He lay on his back beside Sherlock but Sherlock turned to his side to face John and placed his hand on John's shoulder to turn him to face him. He leaned his head forward to capture John's lips in a soft kiss. He pulled back to look at John.

'Thank you', he whispered.

John didn't understand. 'For what?'__

'For loving me.'

'I had no choice.' John shrugged.

It should be funny but it was not. It was never an option to not love Sherlock.

'I love you, John.'

John greedily drank in the sound of Sherlock's voice and whispered words of his love in return.

'You love me and I love you but it's not enough.'

'Everything I have, everything I am is yours, Sherlock. I'm yours for as long as you want me. I don't have anything else to give.'

'There is... I want to be able to call you _husband_'.

'Oh...'

'If you know me, you know I don't say this lightly. I don't want to have to bother with swatting idiotic women away or explaining our relationship to the world. You're not my _boyfriend_', his lips curled into a sneer on the word. 'We are not adolescents. _Lover_ is one-dimensional and terribly limited. _Partner_ doesn't do justice to how much you mean to me. _Husband_ is the only word that fits. You are just going to have to marry me', he declared.

John allowed himself a small smile. 'Well, it would seem that once again I am left without a choice.'

'So it would seem', Sherlock agreed with an answering smile.

'Take me home, love.' They kissed.__

'Tomorrow. Right now, I need to send a text.' They kissed again, then once more.__

John has agreed to marry me. SH

Congratulations, brother. I hope you are happy. MH

I am. SH

-THE END-


End file.
